


Discernment

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-17 02:50:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13649883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Lord Dorian Pavus (no longer of Minrathous) remakes the acquaintance of a colonel in Her Majesty's army.





	1. Chapter 1

Madame Vivienne, first enchanter of Montsimmard, mistress to Duke Bastien de Ghislain, and arcane adviser to Her Majesty Empress Celene, known to the court as Madame de Fer, was not in the habit of accumulating permanent houseguests. Her salons were a staple of court life, her balls legendary, yet at the conclusion of each, her servants were thorough in their sweep of house and grounds and eviction of lingering hangers-on. That a young man had appeared in her household some months previous and had yet to be subject to dismissal inspired a steady stream of rumors, each more unlikely than the last. The most persistent was that Madame de Fer had sought and discovered a younger (and by some accounts more attractive) replacement for the recently departed duke, yet even as her guest remained, Madame Vivienne’s mourning gown also persisted.

The young man in question, one Lord Dorian Pavus, recently of Minrathous, was Tevinter, and that detail alone was enough to urge incautious tongues to resume their wagging. His arrival was sudden, his past shrouded in mystery, two facts that would have lent him appeal enough even without his striking physical appearance and impeccable manners. The younger ladies of the court were charmed; the older (and more affluent, if that were Lord Pavus’s primary motivation) were intrigued; but Lord Pavus seemed indifferent to their attentions beyond enjoying his general popularity. The young men of the court were the occasional recipients of rather more intimate smiles, but even the most refined and handsome among them were not permitted into Dorian’s confidence nor his private company.

The details of his departure from Tevinter were known to very few beyond Dorian himself: his current benefactor; his former patrons, the Alexius family; and Dorian’s father. He was less certain of but suspected that the knowledge extended to two other parties: his mother and Lady Josephine Montilyet, Antivan ambassador to the Orlesian court, a woman who seemed to have endless connections and sources of information but who also displayed an abundance of diplomacy and discretion, which gave Dorian some relief when he considered how much she might have somehow discovered. He considered the role his mother might have had in the affair not at all.

The details of his arrival at the Ghislain Estate were known only to Madame Vivienne and himself. It had occurred on a wet and dreary night after several days’ passage aboard a wet and dreary public carriage. Dorian arrived with only the clothes on his back and a small and intricately carved wooden box. The contents of the box were known to no one but Dorian: the accumulation of some months’ correspondence (save the final letter, which had been consigned to flame), onesided, barely read and never answered. On rare occasion (usually the result of a night’s indulgence), Dorian would lift the latch and allow himself a brief moment to appreciate the strong, neat hand that depicted his name and residence. Never did he allow himself to unfold the letters and read their contents.

His rooms at the Ghislain Estate were more than satisfactory, meeting needs both practical and aesthetic. The plush furnishings of his bed chamber were rivaled in his estimation only by the quality of Madame Vivienne’s library. Uncounted volumes on magical theory and practice were at his disposal, and his hostess allowed him wide and unfettered access. Such access was not, however, without attendant expectation. He would take tea with Madame Vivienne every afternoon, during which they would discuss the latest magical discoveries, the latest fashion, and the latest thinly veiled gossip, none of which contradicted Dorian’s natural desires or inclinations. He would thoroughly enjoy the daily tête-à-têtes were it not for Madame de Fer’s frequent references to the vacant senior enchanter position at Montsimmard. For her part, his acceptance of the position seemed a foregone corollary to her hospitality, and her patience with his polite evasions was wearing thin.

Dorian found respite from the increasingly less subtle hints in the form of Madame Vivienne’s annual Wintersend ball. Attended by the entirety of the imperial court (and many dignitaries from beyond Orlais’s borders; Dorian himself had attended two years previous, wherein he had made Madame Vivienne’s acquaintance, as well as the acquaintance of many other southerners), the ball’s endless details monopolized their daily conversations. Madame Vivienne’s distraction was heightened by her decision to include Lady Montilyet in the planning of the year’s festivities; the two ladies, though each of impeccable taste, were prone to slightly dissimilar opinions, and Dorian was often called upon to act as arbiter and peacemaker.

One such afternoon, he exited onto the balcony overlooking the north end of the estate’s extensive gardens--the setting of Madame de Fer’s private teas--and found Lady Montilyet in an absolute frenzy. She offered only the briefest curtsy to his bow and then resumed pacing and scribbling notes on her ever-present writing-board with her ever-present quill. Madame Vivienne watched the younger woman’s fretting with an amused tilt to her lips, mostly concealed from view by the rim of her teacup.

“My dear, do sit down before you wear a hole in my carpet,” she entreated as Lady Montilyet tutted to herself and furiously crossed out her latest memorandum.

“Oh, yes, of course,” the younger lady replied, settling immediately into the nearest chair without lifting her gaze or pausing in her writing. “But, Madame Vivienne, how will we possibly accommodate extra guests at this late hour? Between the size of your ballroom and the local farms already providing the finest of their stock, we simply cannot extend the festivities to include an entire company.”

“Shall I disinvite the colonel then?” Madame Vivienne punctuated her question with a calm sip of her tea, in contrast to Lady Montilyet’s shocked gasp.

“We cannot!” Lady Montilyet insisted. “Not with the regiment encamped so near to Val Royeaux!”

With a soft clink, Madame Vivienne set her cup in her saucer. “Well, if we cannot disinvite them and we cannot accommodate them, what is it you propose we do?”

As Lady Montilyet made frantic calculations with her quill, Madame Vivienne’s gaze darted to where Dorian still lingered by the glass doors. He smiled, acknowledging his cue, and stepped forward to perch at the end of an open chaise and pour himself a cup.

“If I may be so bold as to interject,” he said, dipping a small spoon into the sugar bowl, “I find it unlikely the colonel intends to bring an entire company. I think the invitation might be safely offered to his core officers, of which there are likely no more than a score.”

“I believe that would satisfy the colonel, yes,” Madame Vivienne replied smoothly.

Lady Montilyet looked to Dorian for confirmation, and he offered her a reassuring smile. He gently pried the writing-board from her hand and replaced it with a cup of tea, which she gratefully accepted.

“I suppose we might accommodate his officers,” she admitted.

“I have no doubt you will handle the extra guests with aplomb,” Dorian agreed.

Lady Montilyet’s blush and downswept gaze were charmingly unpracticed, or so practiced as to appear not to be. “You are too kind, Lord Dorian,” she murmured.

“Nonsense,” he declared. He lounged back into the chaise, crossing one ankle at the opposite knee and taking a sip of his tea. “I’m a dastardly ’Vint intent on bending all Thedas to my whim with blood magic. Didn’t you hear?”

Lady Montilyet laughed, displaying her dimples. “I have no doubt a man of your skill could accomplish such a task, but given that Thedas remains unbowed, I must presume it is your intent that is lacking since it cannot possibly be your competence.”

“You are the one who is too kind, Lady Josephine,” Dorian replied as he raised his cup to her. “And you bear the compliment much more graciously than I.”

Having dispatched with mutual admiration, they sipped their tea, and Lady Montilyet and Madame Vivienne chatted over the minutiae of the easy adjustments that would encompass a score of additional guests. Lady Montilyet continued to fret, but it was clear the new challenges, overwhelming to some but rendered almost inconsequential by her quick mind and manners, brought her no real disquiet. Madame Vivienne, having been the source of her young friend’s temporary panic, soothed the little hurt with the balm of complimentary words, an antidote rarely dispensed to any outside of Madame de Fer’s genuine affections. When his hostess extended her cup to Dorian, he raised the teapot and poured her new refreshment. The lull in the conversation allowed him to interject once more.

“Pray tell, which regiment is it encamped so near to your borders?”

“One known to you, as it happens,” Madame Vivienne replied.

Dorian raised his eyebrow again as she inhaled the fragrant steam of the tea instead of continuing. “Oh? I was not aware I could count much of the imperial army among my acquaintance.”

“Not much,” Madame Vivienne confirmed, “but the colonel of this regiment attended my ball two years past, as you did, though he was a lieutenant colonel then, having not yet received his latest commission.”

His throat suddenly tight, Dorian struggled to swallow his tea. In his agitation, he felt certain he could not compose both his countenance and the steadiness of his hands, and so his cup was swiftly returned to the tea tray.

“I can’t say I recall,” he managed, though the words escaped him with little substance beyond the air that formed them.

The smallest crinkle appeared between Madame Vivienne’s arched brows. “I find that difficult to believe, darling. The man in question is rather memorable.”

“Is he truly as large as they say?” Lady Montilyet asked. “And the horns they describe! I do hope he doesn’t snag them on the draperies.”

“He and his company will be the epitome of gentility,” Madame Vivienne assured her. “He has given me his word, and he is not a man who disregards such lightly.”

He was not, and yet he had, at Dorian’s insistence. The deep voice echoed in Dorian’s mind, replaying the words he had heard in his ears once and in his memory a thousand times.

_I will do as I say. So help me, Dorian, I will not relent._

Overwhelmed by his own sensibilities and incapable of remaining still while the past drew so seemingly near, Dorian rose to his feet. To the ladies’ confused looks, he could only respond with a short bow.

“My apologies,” he stuttered, his usual fluency lost in his upset. “A matter of business… I had forgotten. Please excuse me.”

He awaited no reply but allowed himself a swift retreat to the estate’s interior and the privacy of his borrowed bed chamber, where he desperately hoped to find the strength to master his emotions in the face of an imminent reunion with the Iron Bull.


	2. Chapter 2

The evening of the ball approached with more haste than Dorian might have wished. Though he was determined to comport himself as he ever did, with no special attention or inattention paid to the Iron Bull, the actual details of the meeting could not be foretold. Propriety would insist he acknowledge the acquaintance, of course, but how to present it should he be required to make introductions to others in attendance? He had confidence enough that the Iron Bull would respect his depiction of their relations, as he ever did. As such, their affair two years previous received neither the slightest hint of gossip nor suspicion, even from one as connected and present as Madame Vivienne.

Dorian had seen no point in flouting their brief liaison, temporary as he considered his time in Orlais--a brief holiday romance to be cherished in memory only when he returned to his homeland. Though relations with his father had been strained even then, he’d still held out hope for an amicable resolution, within which there could be no place for a Tal-Vashoth member of Her Majesty’s forces. Iron Bull had been less sanguine, and Dorian could not help but remember with painful clarity the fervor of the soldier’s entreaties to remain.

But for good or ill, Dorian had severed their ties quite completely, and he had no expectation of seeing them retethered. That he had been so wrong in his estimation of his own father’s character, while the Iron Bull had seen quite clearly the disposition of a man he’d never met, stung at the heart of Dorian’s pride and his still-fresh despair at the dissolution of his family. And there was no reason to suppose that the Iron Bull had been as lacking in romantic partners as he himself had been. It seemed more likely that such an eligible officer had taken a spouse, a fact with which Dorian chided himself every day leading up to the ball whenever his mind would wander to a more fantastic imagining of their reunion.

Still, as the evening in question drew near, Dorian’s apprehension found company in a hesitant, fluttering hope. He dressed with care and shaking hands, dismissing his valet in favor of the succor of solitude. Madame Vivienne had offered the services of her tailor, and Dorian had been determined to craft an ensemble fitting of the opportunity. The colors currently finding favor in Her Majesty’s court included grays and subtle browns for the men and softer blues, creams, and pinks for the ladies. Dorian had his suit cut in the darkest black with a silk gold lining and a stark white cravat. The style of the jacket followed the court but cut rather tighter at the waist and flared wider at the hips. His leather boots, too soft for riding but perfect for dancing, rose to mid-thigh. He eschewed the Orlesian mask in favor of gold powder and black kohl. If he could not live as he wished in Tevinter, he would at least dress freely in Orlais.

As he finished applying his cosmetics, he leaned toward the glass to examine his reflection and the changes two years might have wrought. Were the fine lines near his eyes now more defined? Had the trials he’d endured rendered his complexion duller? What would the Iron Bull see that would give him doubt to recognize in him the still-optimistic Dorian of old?

The chime from the ballroom cut his examination short, and he hurried to settle his tailcoat over his shoulders. Punctuality was the watchword of the Ghislain Estate, especially for those dwelling within at the madame’s pleasure. As Dorian strode through the guest wing corridors, he forced himself to an easy pace lest his rapidly increasing heartbeat be revealed through high color in his cheeks. The first carriages had just arrived--surely too early in the evening for the officers to appear--and after a bow to and brief exchange with Madame Vivienne, Dorian took up position near the refreshment table along the north side of the ballroom at his benefactress’s instruction. As the dowagers and gentlemen and young ladies eager to dance entered, he lit the candles along the table in a racing line of pyromancy that culminated in the illumination of the gleaming chandelier overhead. The young clapped and exclaimed while the older guests clutched shocked hands to breasts and tutted disapproval behind their masks (only out of Madame de Fer’s earshot, of course).

Those his display could not win over were instead treated to his charm. He passed by comely beauties to compliment their mothers on their style and choice of dress. He talked shrewd business with the gentlemen and assured them of the wisdom of their investments. And when the young lads and ladies could no longer be denied, he twirled and paraded them about the dance floor, ensuring each partner felt they had been Dorian’s favorite of the night. He had retreated for a momentary respite and a much-needed glass of wine when a scurry near the doors implied a bevy of latecomers. The gray livery of the Ghislain household was parted by a company dressed in the blue and gold of Her Majesty’s army. Dorian’s grip on his wineglass tightened as the man at their fore--at least a head taller than the rest of the crowd--came into view.

The throng of dancers between them concealed most of the party, but the Iron Bull’s horns rose above. As the colonel looked up at the chandelier in approbation, the light caught the silverite worked into the leather of his eye patch. A scar that did not match Dorian’s memory caught the edge of his lip--prompting a pang of concern that he quickly quashed given that the wound had already clearly healed--but did nothing to diminish the smile of general beneficence the colonel bestowed upon the festivities in their whole. From behind him, his officers spread through the assemblage like a drop of blue ink in water, some to the refreshment tables, some to the parlor to make up tables for cards. Iron Bull’s second, Cremisius Aclassi, the only countryman Dorian had yet met in the south, was immediately surrounded by a bevy of female admirers. The influx of familiar faces, the memory of good feeling and camaraderie that pervaded Dorian’s memories of the regiment known as the Chargers, gave his fluttering hope stronger wings and inspired him to greet the Iron Bull right away. He placed down his wineglass and had taken a single step forward when the musicians concluded their sprightly tune and the dancers relinquished the floor. The path cleared between Dorian and the Iron Bull--and also revealed the woman on the colonel’s arm.

The sight of her brought Dorian up short. She was tall, at least as tall as Dorian himself, and he was not a small man. Her skin shone a deeper silver than Iron Bull’s, and onyx horns swept back from her brow in a wave capped with delicate gold filigree. She wore not a gown but the white and gold of Her Majesty’s navy. The gold was doubled in her eyes and the white in the hair that cascaded in a thick braid to her waist. Dressed as they were in formal regimentals, the medals displayed on her chest and the Iron Bull’s would have outweighed the jewelry of any lady in attendance. As he watched, Iron Bull bent down with a mischievous grin to murmur something in her ear, and she threw back her head and laughed.

“What a striking pair they make!” exclaimed a voice to Dorian’s right.

He startled, but when he turned to Lady Montilyet, she watched the newcomers with as rapt attention as he, reassuring him that she had not come to tease.

“The Iron Bull, I presume?” she asked.

“The very same,” Dorian replied, and he was pleased his voice sounded no less steady than usual. “Though I do not know the identity of the lady.”

“Herah Adaar,” Lady Montilyet informed him, “captain of the _Inquisition_. When the colonel learned she was to be in port, he wrote Madame Vivienne specifically to request the extension of an invitation to her.”

To that information, Dorian could make no reply. His heartbeat, which until this moment had seemed to flutter madly, grew slow and sluggish, and he forced a bright smile lest his cheeks grow pale. He complimented Lady Montilyet on her gown, which truly was lovely. She had followed the court’s inclinations more closely than he but could not resist the inclusion of golden embroidery along the gown’s cream-colored bodice. She went without a mask as well, and the open display of her kindly enthusiasm was a balm to Dorian’s disquiet.

As they chatted about the ball’s other attendees, Lady Montilyet made frequent queries regarding the Chargers. Dorian answered as well as he could with what his memory supplied while also trying to steer the conversation away from the regiment. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Madame Vivienne greeted the colonel and captain and led them in a circuit around the ballroom, introducing them to the highest-ranking members of the court and ensuring that all in attendance knew they bore her special favor. With mounting trepidation, he watched the group approach the corner he occupied with Lady Montilyet. The lady’s eyes often strayed to the trio as well, though her growing smile suggested she was eager to make the new acquaintance.

Settling into a state of proper detachment seemed impossible, but Dorian remained more than capable of adopting a suitably polite expression. He squared his shoulders and steeled his resolve, determined to meet the Iron Bull’s eye with outward calm. As such, when the colonel approached, he caught the slight widening of the single eye, and he did not think he imagined the soft intake of breath. The moment passed as quickly as it came, the Iron Bull being at least as practiced in concealing true feeling as Dorian, but the sharp ache of it lingered in Dorian’s chest even as Madame Vivienne began the introductions.

“Darling, you remember the Iron Bull, I trust?”

“I do,” Dorian replied, making his bow. “Delightful to see you again, colonel.”

“An unexpected pleasure,” the Iron Bull answered, bowing in turn, and the low rumble of his voice conjured a fog of volatile emotion in Dorian’s head and heart.

The colonel displayed no hint of being similarly affected. He turned to his companion, and Dorian did not miss the easy familiarity with which Iron Bull touched her shoulder.

“May I present Captain Adaar of the _Inquisition_?” The woman in question bowed with martial grace, and for the first time since childhood, Dorian felt his own display of courtesy lacking.

Iron Bull continued, “Lord Dorian Pavus, altus of the Imperium.” As he did, Dorian saw the captain’s golden eyes narrow, and she regarded him with more careful scrutiny than previous. Dorian’s depressed pulse lurched forward again, and he lost all power of speech as he gained certainty that Captain Adaar knew of his previous relations with the Iron Bull.

Fortunately Madame Vivienne was more than capable of continuing the introductions. She presented the colonel and captain to Lady Montilyet, to the mutual satisfaction of all. Compliments of each party’s formal dress ensued, and then a query from Lady Montilyet as to the presence of a medal of Antivan origin on the captain’s uniform led the latter to offer to share the tale during the next dance. At that very moment, the musicians took up their instruments, and the two women were off to the floor. Before newfound fear of being left behind in the colonel’s company could find seed in Dorian’s breast, the flower had bloomed and borne fruit. Madame Vivienne caught sight of an acquaintance she insisted she had to greet, and Dorian found himself alone with the man whom he had last seen departing his bed chamber with a vow to resist Dorian’s attempts to distance himself.

No scene of similar emotion played out in Madame de Fer’s ballroom, but Dorian felt a resurgence of regret and grief as the Iron Bull’s sharp gaze assessed his current state.

“I’m glad to see you well,” Iron Bull murmured beneath the melody of the reel, and Dorian could hear the honest sentiment behind the words.

“Yes, thank you,” he replied after swallowing the thickness in his throat. “And you as well.” He could remember all too clearly the web of scars that crisscrossed the skin beneath the colonel’s uniform. “No major injuries of note, I hope?”

Iron Bull chuckled as he shook his head. “Nothing to speak of. Since the civil war ended, we’ve barely had a decent fight. My boys are getting soft.”

Despite his disquiet, Dorian couldn’t help but smile at the tone of pride and affection that filled Iron Bull’s voice whenever he spoke of his Chargers. “I find that difficult to imagine, Skinner in particular.”

The smile that Iron Bull turned upon him was as radiant as Dorian remembered, but after a moment, it vanished as quickly as the sun behind a cloud. The piercing gaze left Dorian to sweep over the dancers instead, and Dorian keenly felt the loss of warmth.

“Will you be staying with Madame Vivienne long?” the colonel asked. A tone of polite interest replaced the genuine feeling of before.

“My stay is rather open-ended,” Dorian admitted, and he waited with bated breath for Iron Bull to hear his hesitance, to turn and demand the reason for his departure from Tevinter when he had previously been so determined to stay, even at the expense of their liaison.

But the colonel only nodded, his eye still on the assemblage. “An extended holiday? Good for you.”

“Yes,” Dorian managed, though the word tasted bitter on his tongue. “Good for me.”

No longer able to gaze upon the Iron Bull’s profile with equanimity, Dorian turned his eyes to follow the colonel’s to the dancers. Even a momentary glance would have been enough to reveal which couple the Iron Bull found so compelling. Captain Adaar and Lady Montilyet moved through the crowd with ease, a captivating vision of white and cream and gold. The glint of the lady’s embroidery seemed to wink in response to the adornment of the captain’s horns, and each woman’s eyes were bright and merry with the exercise. Dorian’s breath caught again at the soft smile that could not seem to resist curling Iron Bull’s lips as he watched the pair. The return of that warm expression left Dorian more bereft than its earlier disappearance.

“You know the captain well?” he forced himself to ask.

“Yes,” Iron Bull replied. “We’ve been friends a long time.”

“You met before coming south?”

The colonel shook his head. “I met her here in Orlais shortly after. She never lived under the Qun, but her parents had told her what leaving was like for them. She could understand in part what I’d been through, and even partial understanding was a comfort to me then.”

What must the Iron Bull have been like then, adrift and alone in a strange and foreign land? But no, not alone. Adaar had been his comfort, and he had been part of the Chargers even then. However, Dorian could recall their conversations regarding the north; they were brief and restrained, so unlike Iron Bull’s normal loquaciousness, as if the wound had not quite healed even years later. Had Adaar been his confidant during their liaison? After? Was she the constant by which the Iron Bull set his path? Had their time together been nothing but a brief detour? And what right had Dorian to resent such an attachment when he himself had severed contact with Iron Bull? None at all.

“I am glad you had companionship in such a troubled time.”

His words rang with as much truth as Iron Bull’s authentic relief at his well-being. They could share that at least. He knew without doubt that were he to share the particulars of his departure from Tevinter, he would receive nothing but sympathy and support from the colonel. A lover might be out of Dorian’s reach, but perhaps a friend was not.

But before he could speak, the musicians finished their tune to general applause. Iron Bull joined in heartily and then turned to offer Dorian another bow.

“If you’ll excuse me, Lord Pavus,” he said and quickly hurried off in the direction of Captain Adaar.

Dorian remained behind, his momentary hope for a chance to share his burdens dashed. As he watched, the colonel approached the two ladies and joined in their lively conversation. Lady Montilyet seemed quite taken with both officers, and the feeling appeared to be mutual. Only one moment interrupted their gay camaraderie, when the captain’s eyes fell upon Dorian. He did not mistake the slight crease of her brow and the downward quirk of her lips as she regarded him with obvious disapprobation. His own cheeks flushed beneath that gaze, and he felt acute relief when the music resumed and the captain accepted Iron Bull’s offer of partnership. The pair, head and shoulders above the rest of the company, moved with an easy harmony that bespoke years of companionship.

For his part, Dorian was not without eager partners, and he accepted the first who offered, a young lord from the farther reaches of Orlais. The man was rather plain in appearance but possessed quick wits, and Dorian forced himself to focus on his words instead of how small his hand felt on Dorian’s shoulder when compared to another. In this manner, he passed the evening, moving from partner to partner and easily winning hearts and minds and further cementing the entrenchment of Madame de Fer’s place at court.

He waited until deep into the night, when the revelers had departed and he was quite alone in his own chambers, to press the heels of his hands against his stinging eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

The next evening included the premiere performance of the first dramatic work composed by Philliam, a Bard! Madame Vivienne had secured tickets for herself, those guests of her household, and a collection of acquaintances who would then gather at her estate for a discussion of the work’s relative merits. It promised to be an enjoyable outing, and Dorian eagerly awaited his benefactress’s endlessly diverting commentary as he joined her in her box with Lady Montilyet. Madame Vivienne did not disappoint, and Dorian was thrilled to discover that Lady Montilyet possessed a talent for equally amusing asides, though she was slightly less acid-tongued than the first enchanter and more likely to mourn the humiliation of the poor players at the mercy of the novice and notoriously melodramatic playwright.

At the conclusion of the first act, Lady Montilyet offered to fetch them all refreshment, and Dorian and Madame Vivienne exchanged relevant tidbits of intelligence regarding those who would attend the upcoming salon. Dorian attempted to summon the courage to ask if the colonel and captain would be in attendance, but before he could, Madame Vivienne directed his attention to someone in the lower gallery seeking his eye. When Dorian turned, he found himself locking gazes with the man in question. At his companion’s insistence--and with a mouth gone rather dry-- Dorian descended the steps to join the Iron Bull at his gallery bench.

“Thanks for coming down,” Iron Bull said as Dorian sat. He offered a wry grimace as he rubbed at his left leg. “I wasn’t sure I could manage the steps.”

“Your ankle?” Dorian queried, and he had to resist the urge to reach out with a heated hand as had been his wont two years previous.

The colonel nodded. “Too much dancing.”

The prickly thought that none of that dancing had been with Dorian, not even for civility’s sake, was unworthy of him, and Dorian quickly brushed it aside, but Iron Bull himself addressed the issue when he next spoke.

“I feel I must apologize for last night,” he said, leaning closer to Dorian so they might not be overheard.

“You have nothing for which to apologize,” Dorian murmured back. He rested his gaze on his own clasped hands to avoid the colonel’s piercing eye.

“I think I do,” Iron Bull replied, and the gentleness of his tone raised Dorian’s eyes despite his best efforts. The colonel looked back at him with regret twisting his brow. 

“Madame Vivienne didn’t inform me of your presence at her estate,” the colonel explained. “Seeing you again… It threw me. More than it should have. But that doesn’t excuse my rudeness in leaving you so abruptly.”

“It does, in fact,” Dorian assured him. “So minor a slight is nothing in the face of months of my inattention to your correspondence.”

The Iron Bull shook his head, and his expression did not clear. “No, the fault in that is mine as well. I should not have forced my attentions on you when you made your disinterest plain.”

“Disinterest?” Dorian’s heart felt brittle in his breast. “No. Call it by any other name but never that. Your letters were neither unwanted nor unwarranted.”

The creases surrounding Iron Bull’s eye patch deepened as he shifted closer to Dorian along the bench and lowered his head to bring them to more of a height. “Then why did you not reply to my last letter?” Iron Bull entreated. “I asked for nothing but a line or two of confirmation that I should continue. I wished only to know that you were well and that my misgivings were for nothing. I would not have asked for your affections again.”

Wanting to speak, Dorian found his throat tight and his wits slow. How to explain how very right Bull had been in his misgivings? How very desperately Dorian wished he would again ask for his affections? His discomfort must have shown on his face (Bull had ever been adept at reading his expression), and the colonel’s hand crept across the bench to close the distance between them. His fingers lay alongside Dorian’s, barely touching but for their shared body heat.

“What happened, Dorian?” Bull asked in his low voice. “Why are you in the south?” 

Dorian shook his head, still unable to find the words to speak of all that had happened. “Not here,” he finally managed. “You’re attending Madame de Fer’s salon?”

When Bull nodded, Dorian dared to place his hand atop Bull’s. “I’ll explain then. All of it. I swear.”

Bull opened his mouth to reply, but in that moment, a set of boots clicked down the stairs toward them. “Bull,” Captain Adaar began, “you would not believe what Sera and Dagna just--”

Both boots and voice cut off as the captain appeared beside their bench before they could separate. Dorian sprang to his feet, using the movement to put some distance between himself and Iron Bull. He offered a hasty bow to the captain, who returned the gesture without the grace of the ball, looking quite flustered and dismayed.

“Lord Pavus!” she exclaimed. “I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Not at all,” Dorian replied. “It is I who must beg your pardon, for I have taken your seat.”

“Nonsense!” Adaar stated. She recovered her wits quickly, settling hands on her hips and adopting the stance of steadfast captain. “We can certainly make room on the bench. Won’t you join us for the second act?”

The invitation seemed so genuinely spoken that Dorian was taken aback. Had he imagined the captain’s displeasure the night before? Even so, he could not bear the idea of sitting beside Bull without being able to speak. Or worse, feeling the gazes of the two qunari meet above his head.

“I thank you, but no,” he answered. “I must return to the ladies of my party.”

“But we will see you at the Bastien estate?” the captain pressed. “Lady Montilyet assures me of excellent company and conversation.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

Before bowing to them both in farewell, Dorian glanced at Iron Bull, who continued to gaze at him with furrowed brow. As he hurried up the steps, his whirling mind couldn’t help but marvel at the reactions of the pair he’d left. Did the captain truly bear him no animosity? He was sure he had not mistaken her disapproval the previous evening, but perhaps he had miscalculated its target. Had she been the one to point out Bull’s incivility? To what end? Was she so secure in Bull’s affections that she would not begrudge him the friendship of a man with whom he’d once had a dalliance? Perhaps the quality of her character was above such petty jealousies, in which case Dorian admired her greatly.

Or perhaps… perhaps she had no claim to Iron Bull’s affections at all, save those of friendship. Perhaps she knew of a lingering sentiment for Dorian on Bull’s part, one that she wished to see rekindled for the sake of her friend’s happiness. Despite his best efforts, Dorian could not contain the hope that flew on renewed wings, revived from its previous despair like a phoenix from the ashes. He resumed his place beside the ladies just as the candles dimmed for the second half of the performance. Neither what he saw acted before him nor the comments of his companions could hold his attention. When the lights resumed to signal the performance’s end, his capricious mind could remember not a word that had been spoken.

Fortunately Madame Vivienne and Lady Montilyet were too occupied with enacting a polite but hasty exit to note his distraction. The two ladies waved and kissed cheeks of passersby as they hurried to reach their carriage and thus arrive back at the estate before their guests. Dorian allowed himself to be swept up in their flurry, though he listened with only half an ear to their plans for the salon as they rode. They all descended with alacrity at the estate, and Dorian made haste toward his bed chamber with the intention of perfecting his attire and makeup with rather more care than he had before the theater.

He had only gained the foot of the staircase to the guest quarters when Madame Vivienne’s steward called for his attention. The man traversed the estate’s foyer with quick steps and extended a sealed envelope to Dorian.

“A letter for you, Lord Pavus,” he explained. “The messenger was instructed to deliver it with all dispatch, and I judged it wise to do the same.”

“I am grateful for it, ser,” Dorian replied, and as the steward bowed and left, Dorian examined the envelope’s seal. The staircase where he lingered was near to the estate’s main entrance, from where he could already hear the sounds of harnesses jingling and coachmen calling to one another. To the side of the staircase was a small alcove overlooked by a window depicting the Lady on her pyre, and to there Dorian retreated before breaking the wax bearing the sigil of Magister Maevaris Tilani. 

_Dearest—_

_I would pay any amount of gold not to write this letter, but I will not trouble Gereon and I will entrust it to no one else, and so it falls to me._

_To the point then. Felix has lapsed into another episode, and the surgeons tell us that this time he will not recover. He seems so content that I would doubt their word, except that he eats little, sleeps less, and grows more frail with each passing hour. Our dear boy says he is at peace and asks for nothing, but this afternoon he mentioned in passing a wish to see you once more. He dismissed it immediately as an impossibility and begged me not to take it to heart, but how can I not?_

_I know the division between you and your father must have been extreme to send you south, and that neither you nor Felix or Gereon have conveyed the details speaks of its severity. But if you will consent to make the journey north, I will do everything in my power to ensure you arrive at the Alexius estate unmolested. I will await no reply but send a carriage to my border villa for your use, should you have need._

_Please come, dearest. For your sake as well as Felix’s._

_Yours with sincerest affection,  
Mae_

A drop fell upon Dorian’s thumb before he noticed the tears sliding down his face. He gasped for breath and struggled to stem the tide of his grief until he could reach solitude. In the foyer behind him, Madame de Fer’s guests were already gathering, merry and boisterous with the night’s entertainment. Dorian could not reach the stairs without being within their sight, and he could only pray no one stumbled across him as he resumed a mask suitable for polite company.

His prayers and struggles seemed dually in vain when he heard footsteps approach before his eyes were dry. His mind cast about desperately for some excuse for his condition, but he found none, and he startled bodily when a hand came to rest on his shoulder. When his addled wits registered the size of that hand and therefore to whom it must belong, he sagged in relief.

“Dorian?” Bull queried. The hand on Dorian’s shoulder turned him slightly to face Bull, and a soft breath escaped the colonel. “Dorian, what is it? What’s happened?” 

Without words, Dorian handed Bull the letter in his hand. Even as he read, Bull turned them slightly so that his larger body blocked any view of Dorian from the gathered assembly. A few more tears slid free, welling from the depths of Dorian’s gratitude.

Bull tucked the letter into the breast pocket of his uniform and then shifted his hand to the center of Dorian’s back. “I’m getting you upstairs,” he said in a tone that would brook no contradiction.

They moved quickly with Bull’s bulk acting as shield. His reputation served as well; the Iron Bull was well-liked at court, and thus his presence would diminish any rumors at Dorian’s expense. Despite his state of shock, Dorian felt another surge of warm affection for his rescuer and drew immense comfort from the fingers splayed between his shoulders. When Bull steered them toward the room Dorian had occupied on his previous visit, Dorian redirected him to the chamber across the hall with a sense of relief. Given his scattered emotional state, he wasn’t certain he could face Bull in the same room where they had last parted.

Upon entry, Dorian went straight to the bed and dropped heavily to sit at the edge with his head in his hands. A servant had kept a low fire burning in the hearth, and he listened as Bull stoked the flames and then bustled about the room. He heard the clink of glass on glass, and the mattress beside him dipped deeply as Bull sat down and offered him a brandy. Dorian drained it in one gulp, letting the burn clear the lump in his throat.

“How can I help?” Bull murmured, and Dorian barely resisted the urge to lean into his side.

“You already have.”

“I can arrange for a carriage. How soon do you want to leave?”

Dorian swiped the hand holding the empty glass across his eyes. In the next moment, the glass was taken from him and replaced by Bull’s handkerchief. He rubbed his face, wincing at the streaks of kohl that marred the clean linen.

“At first light ideally.”

“Of course,” Bull replied. “I’ll need to clear it with Krem, but I’m owed a leave of absence and he can certainly handle training maneuvers.”

Dorian gaped at him. “What? What are you saying?”

Bull’s hand closed on his shoulder once more. “You don’t have to travel alone, Dorian. Let me come with you.”

“No.” Dorian shot to his feet, wringing the handkerchief in his grasp. “No!” he repeated more forcefully. “Bull, you can’t. It’s too dangerous.”

Bull gazed back at him, hands braced on his thick thighs and an expression of mulish obstinance on his face. “The Imperium may not be fond of qunari or Her Majesty’s army, but they’re not going to kill an Orlesian officer on sight.”

“I’m not concerned about the guard,” Dorian answered.

“Then what?”

How Dorian hated to cry, the puffed and gritty feeling it left in his eyes. He rubbed at them again as he sighed. “My father.”

When he looked back to the colonel, his expression had shifted to one of confused curiosity. “What does your father know of me?”

“Too much,” Dorian replied. “I was so cautious with your letters, never letting them away from my sight. But the last… When you asked for a reply, I agonized over how to respond. I had believed so fervently that the severance between us must be complete, but I could not bear the thought that you feared your attentions had been unwanted. Your correspondence was a lifeline in that troubled time. I think even then I knew my hopes for my father’s approbation were in vain.”

Iron Bull rose to his feet, approaching Dorian but keeping careful distance. “Dorian, what happened?”

Despite his efforts, tears welled in Dorian’s eyes again, bitter with betrayal rather than grief. He dashed them away with an impatient hand. “In my agony of indecision, I grew careless. I left your last letter on my desk while I went out. When I returned, my father was in my study, the letter in his hand. As I watched, he burned it to ash, and then he forbade me to leave the estate grounds.”

A choked laugh escaped Dorian’s throat. “At first I had no real belief in his sincerity, but the next time I attempted to visit Felix, I was turned back from the gate by our own guards. I resolved to wait until his anger subsided, to play the chastised, dutiful son until he relented and we could try again to reach an amicable agreement regarding my future.”

As he continued, Dorian could not bear to meet Iron Bull’s gaze amid the burning humiliation that he had accepted such treatment. “But months passed with no change in his disposition. He refused to relent until I agreed to a proper marriage. On one evening, when I could take no more, I snuck out into the city. When our guards found me, I was then confined to the main house. When I protested further, I was confined to my own chamber under lock and key.”

“Dorian…” Bull breathed, but Dorian shook his head.

“Oh, my tale of woe is not yet concluded,” he declared with venom. “No, imprisonment was not enough. Some weeks later, my old nursemaid came to see me. She’d been reassigned to the kitchens when I came of age, and in Tevinter, one barely notices the servants when they bring the tea. As such, she’d overheard my father consulting with a colleague in his study. She had no real understanding of what they discussed, but she gleaned enough to fear for my safety. Everything she told me revealed that my father planned to enact a ritual to make me more acquiescent to his wishes.” The next words caught in his throat. “A blood ritual.” 

“ _Vashedan_ ,” Bull cursed. The distance between them was closed as Bull took Dorian by the shoulders once again. “Are you… did you escape?”

Dorian nodded, the movement slow in his misery. “I did, barely.”

“You should have come to me,” Bull insisted. “I could have… Shit, Dorian.”

“How could I come to you?” Dorian asked, looking up into the forlorn eye. “How could I possibly beg your forgiveness for choosing him over you?”

“You think I don’t understand such a choice?” Bull retorted. “The Qun demanded I engage in a terrible, vicious war again and again, and still I returned. When I could no longer stomach the conflict, I went to them willingly and _asked_ to be made compliant.” One large hand lifted to cup Dorian’s jaw. “Your sense of self was ever stronger than mine, and I have nothing but admiration for your bravery.”

Neither despair nor grief could dampen the thrill that passed through Dorian at that gentle touch, but on one point, he refused to be swayed. “You see now that you must not accompany me. I maintain no confidence in what actions my father might stoop to, and I will not risk your life.”

“But you risk your own?” Bull demanded. “Dorian, you cannot possibly return to Tevinter under such a threat.”

“And I should leave Felix to die alone?” Dorian shot back, stepping away from the other man’s touch.

“He is not alone,” Bull pointed out. Dorian shook his head.

“No. I will not abandon him out of fear of my father.”

“But you wish me to abandon you from the same fear?” Bull insisted. 

“I am not abandoned,” Dorian replied, but in a softer tone than before. “I am not without friends in Tevinter. I kept the details of my departure largely to myself, but I will share them if need be with those who can ensure my protection. There are traditions in place that protect those in mourning as well. The Imperium may not be Nevarra, but we honor our dead and do not despoil their memory with petty bickering.”

At Bull’s sides, his large hands clenched into fists, but he closed his eye and inhaled deeply. “When will you return?”

“I will spend a month in Alexius’s house,” Dorian answered. He stepped closer to Bull again and dared to reach out and lay fingers upon one fist. “No more, I promise you.”

Bull opened his eye. “Send word as soon as you return. From the border if you can.” 

Dorian nodded. “I will.” 

With creased brow, Bull sighed. “I will make your excuses to Madame Vivienne and arrange for a carriage.”

“Thank you,” Dorian said, and in the simple words, he tried to convey the depth of feeling that Bull’s kindness had ever inspired within him.

As he moved away, Bull’s fist opened, and his fingers brushed against Dorian’s. He stepped out into the corridor, and Dorian was left alone with his grief. After a moment to collect himself, he packed his feeling away and began instead to pack his empty valise.


	4. Chapter 4

The journey to Tevinter passed with disorienting swiftness. Felix’s final days passed in agonizing lethargy. At his bedside, Dorian could only pray for his friend’s peace and then despair with the knowledge that such ease would come only with his final breath. But for the smiles they shared and the words of love they exchanged, Dorian would have endured a lifetime of such agony.

When the prayers were concluded, when the final words of benediction had been spoken, when nothing remained of their friend away from the Maker’s side, Mae returned to the Magisterium. Dorian remained to assist Gereon with the disposition of Felix’s worldly goods. He began to spend his days in Felix’s study, combing through the neatly organized files and notebooks. Even after falling ill, his friend had continued the work he had begun when Dorian still dwelled in his household as Gereon’s apprentice. While they had sought to unravel the magical mysteries of the universe, Felix had strived to understand its mathematical underpinnings. Dorian worked tirelessly to comprehend the work that constituted his friend’s legacy, determined to bequeath its most brilliant aspects to a worthy university.

In the midst of one afternoon’s toil, a servant brought his tea. Placed upon the tray was a letter addressed in a familiarly elegant hand. Dorian smiled and set aside his work to peruse the latest court gossip from Madame de Fer. Her observations were as witty and cutting as always, even as her references to the vacancy at Montsimmard persisted in their pointedness. For the first time, Dorian pondered whether accepting such a position would really be so onerous. To have a place of his own in Orlais, to continue his magical studies, to shape the future of Orlesian magic… True, the southern Circles were deemed barbaric by northern standards, but Madame Vivienne had assured him that Montsimmard was a place of learning and refinement. And Dorian had at least one friend in the south that would not stand for any mistreatment to fall upon Dorian. A friend who felt deeply Dorian’s own pain, who touched him still with such gentleness, who might yet harbor some more tender feelings…

“It is good to see you smile again, my son.”

The voice from the doorway acted upon Dorian like an electric shock. The letter fell from his innervated fingers as he leapt to his feet, mana already pooling in his hands.

“Father,” Dorian accused. “What are you doing here?”

Upon being addressed, Halward stepped into the room, hands folded before him in the appearance of solemn sympathy. “I came to pay my condolences to Gereon. And to you.”

Dorian barked a short laugh. “So you’ve expanded your repertoire? Gone from pretending to care about me to pretending to care about my friends? How nice.”

The lines in Halward’s brow creased more deeply. Had they always been so pronounced? “I have always cared about you, Dorian,” he replied. “I have wanted only what was best for you.”

Dorian’s hands curled into fists, and sparks of lightning danced across his knuckles. “You wanted what’s best for _you_ ,” he spat. “For your fucking legacy. Anything for that.”

With a pained grimace, Halward closed his eyes. “Will you return to Orlais?” he asked, his voice gone hoarse.

“Where I go is no longer your concern,” Dorian replied. With a conscious effort, he extinguished the magic ghosting across his palms and folded his arms across his chest.

Halward nodded, and when he reopened his eyes, Dorian was shocked to see the sheen of tears. “I hope you find friends there who will be as true as Felix was.”

“I already have.”

If anything, the declaration seemed to pain Halward further; his lips parted to speak, but he refrained from voicing his thought.

“What?” Dorian demanded with impatience. “You clearly have some comment to make. I have no care for your opinion, but make it known and then depart.” 

“I have an acquaintance in the Orlesian court.” The words were spoken slowly, as if with reluctance.

“Spying on me, Father?” Dorian spat. “Do you fancy yourself a southern bard now?” 

Halward seemed to steel himself with a bracing breath. “I admit I once asked for information regarding the Iron Bull.”

“Of course you did.” The emotion of the past weeks--perhaps even months or years--fell upon Dorian in a moment. He slumped wearily and rubbed a hand across his brow.

“By all reports, he is a good man.”

That drew Dorian from his depressed spirits, and he looked up at his father in surprise. “He is that,” he agreed in a subdued tone. 

Halward nodded. “Then I hope he is a friend to you. When you return to Orlais, please convey my regards and my best wishes for his upcoming nuptials.”

The word caught in Dorian’s ears but penetrated no farther into his consciousness. “His what?”

“My apologies,” Halward replied. “I assumed you knew he was to wed.”

“Wed whom?” The words spilled out before Dorian could stop them, despite his painful awareness that his voice had taken on a note of strain. “When?”

“My acquaintance wrote several days ago that he is engaged to a captain in the Orlesian navy,” Halward reported. “A qunari woman, I believe.” He took a step closer toward the desk where Dorian still stood. “I’m sorry, my son. I truly thought you aware.”

“No,” Dorian said in a low voice. Magic thrummed within him again. “No, you didn’t.” He narrowed his eyes to glare at his father, and Halward took a wide-eyed step back. “Did you think I would not return to Orlais without the Iron Bull’s affections? Did you think I would remain if you dangled a painful reminder of lost love? That I would seek comfort from _you_?” Dorian slammed his hands on the desk’s surface, and only last-moment restraint kept its precious contents from bursting into flame. “The Iron Bull could wed tomorrow, and I would still depart at the end of the month as planned. Nothing you say or do will ever convince me to return to Tevinter while any part of it remains within your influence.”

“I…” Halward swallowed visibly and then continued his retreat. “Of course. You have no reason to trust my words. I have not given you reason.” He turned and moved to depart only to pause upon the threshold. 

“Once I had a son who trusted me,” he murmured. “A trust I betrayed. I only wanted to talk to him. To hear his voice again. To ask him to forgive me.” 

Dorian’s jaw clenched tight to hold back the tide of his feeling. “Please go.” 

Without a backward glance, Halward obeyed his wishes. As soon as he was gone, Dorian fell back into his chair. His eyes landed upon Madame Vivienne’s letter where it lay discarded on the surface of the desk before him. He snatched it up, discarding the pages he had already read and scanning the rest with feverish attention. Just a few paragraphs above the stylish signature, several lines stood out to him as though etched in flame. 

_General acclaim met the announcement of Captain Adaar’s engagement to someone of our mutual acquaintance. I need hardly mention who; I am certain you saw the signs as well as I. The happy couple expresses their desire to have you present at the ceremony, and I hope you will not disappoint them._

The pages again dropped from Dorian’s grasp to flutter heedlessly to the desk. He reminded himself that it didn’t matter, that it changed nothing. He had not gone to Orlais with any expectation of resuming his relationship with the colonel. Yes, there had been fleeting moments when he had thought that perhaps some warmth between them might be rekindled, but as he considered those moments more closely, he could see only friendship in the Iron Bull’s gestures. The man often touched shoulders or hands of those he was close to, as Dorian had himself observed among the Chargers. He had expressed grave concern regarding Dorian’s return to Tevinter, but he would have felt as much for any of his acquaintance. The Iron Bull’s size and strength, his sentiment and his spirit, led him to protect those in need, even to the point of sacrificing his own eye for a complete stranger. Of course he would fear for a friend in possible danger. 

And yet Dorian’s reason could not hold back the despair that stole his breath. In one instant, he truly understood the depth of his own feelings, when the time for their reciprocation had long passed. He had let his misplaced affections for his father overshadow all others. And now both father and lover were lost to him forever. 

With trembling fingers, he reached for fresh parchment and a quill. His wounded heart would brook no delay in his reply to Madame de Fer. She would convey his regrets for missing the wedding and accept the same for not accepting the position at Montsimmard. The idea of returning to Orlais on a permanent basis, which just minutes before had seemed to hold some appeal, now held nothing but distaste for him. He would seek his future elsewhere, in Ferelden or the Free Marches. He would have no friends to recommend him, but he retained his wits and talent, enough to begin a new life far from distressing memories of the old. 

Decision made, he set ink to paper and began to write.


	5. Chapter 5

The night before Dorian was set to leave Tevinter, a loud knock roused him from uneasy slumber. With bleary mind, he realized he had fallen asleep while still dressed in his shirt and trousers, and so he went to the door without concern for his modesty. He did, however, bring along the new staff that Gereon had gifted him out of concern for his safety. That his father might seek to prevent his imminent departure was a consideration he would not discount. 

When he opened the door, he found instead Gereon himself, wrapped in his dressing gown and rubbing reddened eyes. Felix’s loss weighed heavily upon him, but in his state of interrupted sleep, he seemed more like the irascible mentor Dorian had known. 

“Pavus,” he grumbled, “please explain to me why a very large, very wet qunari is demanding entrance to my house at such an hour.” 

Dorian could only frown at him in his own lazy befuddlement. “I… beg your pardon?” 

“A qunari,” Gereon repeated. “In my foyer. He refuses to leave until he has assurance of your safety, and as my word seems to be lacking, please go and demonstrate that you are of sound mind and body before he frightens the servants into apoplexy.” 

Only one qunari in all of Thedas would express such concern for his well-being, and Dorian’s feet propelled him toward that one before his mind could form coherent thought. He hurried down the corridor and rushed down the main staircase, barely breathing from the effort, the shock, and an anticipation that he knew he should deny. 

But when he reached the foyer, he knew there would be no denying his feelings for the man before him, no matter how much heartbreak it brought. Drenched to the skin from the rainstorm raging outside, fists tight and mouth set in a grim line from some inner turmoil, the Iron Bull glared at the Alexius guards with unconcealed impatience. When Dorian’s arrival caught his eye, that indomitable focus turned to him, and Dorian’s pulse stuttered out of rhythm. 

In half a dozen long strides, Bull reached him and grasped his shoulders in a grip just short of painful. “Dorian!” he exclaimed. “Tell me you’re safe. Tell me you’re all right.” 

“I’m fine,” Dorian breathed. “Bull, I’m fine.” He reached out to place his hands against the rain-soaked linen that clung to Bull’s chest. The heat of the skin, the solidity of the muscles beneath his fingers drew Dorian from his shocked haze and confirmed the reality of the moment. 

“What in the Maker’s name are you doing here?” he demanded. 

“I thought…” Bull’s grasp on Dorian loosened a fraction, and he blinked, as if he too were emerging from a daze. “I feared you were in danger.” 

“And you rode all the way from Orlais to do what? To be certain?” Dorian asked. As his shock receded, alarm at the danger in which Bull had put himself stoked his anger. “Did it never occur to you to simply put quill to paper? I specifically asked you not to come here!” 

Bull flinched back, and he released his hold on Dorian. “I know. Dorian, I know. And I’m sorry. But I could not sit by and let your father hold you here against your will.”

“My father?” Dorian cried. “Where did you possibly get such an idea?” 

Beneath his furrowed brow, Bull’s eye cast downward and his expression twisted with regret. “When Madame Vivienne told me of your intention not to return, I feared a ploy on your father’s part. I feared he would force you to claim travel to Ferelden to prevent your friends searching for you here.” 

“Bull, that’s…” Gazing at the misery etched on Bull’s face, Dorian felt his heart return to softer feelings. “Well, I won’t say that’s absurd. In light of everything I told you, I can perhaps see how such a conclusion could be drawn.” When Bull looked up, his gaze was filled with such tender concern that Dorian felt his chest would collapse inward like a dying star. 

He forced a wavery laugh. “What must Captain Adaar think?” 

Bull blinked. “Herah?” With a scoffed chuckle of his own, he shook his head. “She practically pushed me onto my horse.” 

That his former lover’s fiancée would express such worry for his safety spoke of just how worthy she was to claim Bull’s affection. “She is an excellent woman,” Dorian said, and even his traitorous heart could not question his right judgment on that score. “I’m sure you will be very happy together.” 

Bull’s eyebrow climbed to a higher position on his forehead. “That would be rather awkward given that she’s marrying someone else.”

A bolt from some unknown source seemed to jar Dorian’s spine. “She what?” 

Bull’s lips turned down again. “I thought Madame Vivienne told you. She and Lady Montilyet--” 

“Josephine!” Dorian exclaimed. “Josephine is engaged to Captain Adaar?” He spluttered for a moment, at a complete loss for words. “But… but they hardly know each other!” 

With a shrug, Bull’s frown shifted to a smile. “These things don’t always take much time.” The smile gave way in its turn to a smirk. “Or do you forget how quickly our first dance turned to something more?” 

A blush rose swift and hot to Dorian’s cheeks, and with exquisite gentleness, Bull brushed the backs of his fingers across the heightened color. 

“Is that what this was about?” he murmured. “You thought I was engaged to be married?” 

Dorian swallowed. “Of course not. I would hardly alter the course of my life simply for your sake.” 

In a motion that seemed to take years of Dorian’s life, Bull lowered his forehead to rest against his. “That’s a shame,” Bull replied. “Because I came here to ask you to return with me.” 

Dorian closed his eyes and forgot to breathe. 

“I could not bear to lose you again,” Bull continued in a voice no more than a husky whisper. “I would never enter into an engagement with Herah Adaar because you are the only one with whom I wish to spend my life. Please say that you will come back to Orlais and consent to be my husband.” 

“Well,” Dorian whispered back, “I suppose you did travel all this way.” 

With no further encouragement, Bull dipped his head and pressed his lips to Dorian’s. The contact seared through Dorian so completely that several moments passed before he realized they were being applauded by the vast majority of the Alexius household staff. His flush returned full force, but he could not help but laugh as they separated. Bull’s grin seemed to illuminate the entire foyer, and Dorian could see that even Gereon stood at the base of the staircase with a rare smile on his lips. 

Straightening to his full height, Dorian clapped his hands. “Yes, yes. So pleased you enjoyed the show. Now off to bed, the lot of you!” Then he grinned up at his fiancé. “As for you,” he purred, “we simply must get you out of those wet clothes before you catch your death.” 

“Yes, dear,” Bull replied with mock contrition. Dorian spared him a pinch on the arm before taking his elbow and leading him toward his bed chamber.


	6. Chapter 6

The wedding ceremony of Lady Josephine Montilyet of Antiva and Captain Herah Adaar of the _Inquisition_ was an elegant affair presided over by the Divine herself. Her Reverence smiled upon the couple with rather more than the ordinary delight, and Dorian found himself marveling again at the lady’s connections, which counted the Divine as a friend from school among them. The pair themselves were the picture of joy, the crispness of the captain’s uniform no match for her dazzling smile and the pearls woven into the lady’s dark hair reflecting less of the sun’s brilliance than the sheen of happy tears in her eyes. 

The celebration that followed was somewhat more raucous, thanks to the inclusion of both the Chargers and the _Inquisition_ ’s crew. Dorian had never expected to meet a group as prone to spontaneous song as Bull’s regiment, but among the captain’s crew, they were nearly outdone. Before long, Rocky and one of Adaar’s people were conjuring a legitimately magical display of fireworks, despite the fact that the sun had not yet set and the treeline hovered dangerously close. 

Instead of being shocked by the carrying-on, the Montilyet family laughed along with good humor. Though initially dismayed at their eldest daughter’s choice of partner beneath the ranks of the gentility, the heads of the household quickly realized that advantages of a daughter-in-law who possessed good relations with all of the major shipbuilding companies in Thedas. On the day when Her Majesty’s navy lost a captain to retirement, the Montilyet merchant fleet would gain a new admiral. 

As the afternoon wore on and evening fell in earnest, Dorian ended tucked in the midst of an escalating battle of tall tales. Seated at a table with Bull to his left and a tankard of Fereldan ale in his hand, he laughed long and loud as the Chargers and the _Inquisition_ crew strove each to outdo the other. While a young elf with choppy blond hair described a situation wherein she found herself elbow deep in… circumstances, Dorian glanced at his fiancé, who he realized had been uncharacteristically quiet. 

“Are you all right, amatus?” he murmured. 

The smile Bull bestowed upon him filled his chest with warmth. “Never better, kadan.” He nodded toward where Lady Montilyet and Captain Adaar sat on a bench beneath the mage-lit trees, oblivious to all except each other. “That will be us in two weeks’ time.” 

Sweet anticipation unfurled until Dorian felt himself suffused with an inner light that must be visible to all around him. “Ah,” he said, taking great effort to keep his own grin under control. “Distracted by the thought of the best day of your life, are you?” 

Bull adopted a thoughtful frown, scratching at his jaw. “The day I joined the Chargers? Can’t say it’s crossed my mind.” 

Dorian repaid the insolence with a swat to Bull’s chest. “You’re terrible, and I hate you.” 

His hand was caught up by Bull’s own and brought to his fiancé’s lips. “Love you too, kadan.” 

Surrounded by his love and dear friends, seated beneath a Maker-sent sky of twinkling stars and among the rustling leaves and sweet fragrances of Madame de Fer’s demesne, contemplating his own future marital bliss, Dorian considered that the south was really rather charming after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


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